


Scenes from Night Vale

by Felinicity



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Drabble Collection, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, basically just a bunch of scenes with Cecil and Carlos being perfect dorks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:57:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 8,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6792184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felinicity/pseuds/Felinicity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a list of writing prompts found here: http://sunshockk.deviantart.com/art/100-Writing-Prompts-Challenge-330099896</p>
<p>A whole mess of fluffy drabbles, lots of domesticity, occasional feels maybe. Mature rating for one chapter only so far, the rest is pretty G-rated. Mostly Cecilos, but other characters will probably make an appearance!</p>
<p>Not sure if I'll get through all 100 prompts, but we'll see!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dance

Carlos has always had two left feet when it comes to dancing. He's graceful enough at walking and its variations, but the moment music comes into it he's a mess.

 

Cecil loves to dance. Every chance he gets, he's wiggling away to a song, whether it's aloud or just in his head. He does twirls around the house, wielding a duster, on cleaning days. So of course he gets beyond excited when one of the interns mentions Night Vale Prom.

 

“I'd completely forgotten that was coming up!” he squeaks in delight, digging through the closet for something to wear. He pulls out and inspects several items, one of them the tunic Carlos recognizes from their first date, tossing each one aside with a huff of disdain. Carlos sits nervously on the bed watching the growing pile of discarded clothing.

 

“Cecil,” he starts, trying to get the other man's attention for a moment. “I have nothing to wear to a dance.”  
  


“Oh, Carlos,” Cecil lilts. “You can just toss on a formal lab coat and you'll be fine. You have the magnificent luck of looking good in anything. I, on the other hand...” He pauses to hold a periwinkle swath of fabric up to his chest, making a 'hmm' noise.

 

“Cecil,” Carlos tries again, “I can't even dance.” He feels his cheeks heating up, face flushing. Cecil turns and gives him a curious look.

 

“Your schools didn't have mandatory ballroom dance lessons?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. Carlos shakes his head, not even going to get into the rest of the country's public school curricula. Cecil's expression brightens suddenly. “That's okay, I can teach you!”

 

Carlos sputters and starts to protest, but Cecil is grabbing his hand and pulling him into the middle of the room, keeping a firm grasp until Carlos gives up and accepts his fate. Cecil places Carlos's hand on his shoulder and holds the other gently.

 

“Hope you don't mind if I lead,” Cecil says, grinning. “I never did quite get the hang of doing it backwards.”

 

He talks Carlos through it, showing him where his feet should go, moving them slowly through the basics. Carlos isn't sure if it's easier or harder without music, with no rhythm to follow but Cecil's. They stop after a while, just swaying together in the center of the room, Carlos resting his head on Cecil's shoulder.

 

“I don't know if I can manage this without staring at my feet,” Carlos mumbles into Cecil's shirt. Cecil laughs, a sweet bubbly sound that sets Carlos's stomach aflutter.

 

“We'll keep practicing until you get it. Besides, you don't really have to be good at dancing. You're a scientist.” That gets Carlos laughing too, until Cecil quiets him with a kiss. On a whim Carlos sweeps Cecil into a dip, surprising another delighted giggle out of him. “See? You can dance just fine.”

 

“Only with you,” Carlos says, pulling Cecil upright again. “I think your rhythm might be contagious.”

 

“Well if it is, rest assured that I only want to share my dance germs with you.”

 

“Thanks, Cecil.”

 


	2. Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Carlos has anxiety, and Cecil helps him get through normal adult tasks.
> 
> (Based on how my husband handles my bad anxiety days.)

Some days getting out of bed is a monumental task, even with his meds. Carlos forces his way through dressing, pulling on a shirt without bothering to shower or even comb his hair first. He makes it to the kitchen and fidgets in the doorway, watching Cecil make coffee.

“Morning,” he says quietly, and Cecil turns around smiling a thousand-watt grin that quickly fades when he sees Carlos's face.

“Morning,” he replies. “Bad anxiety day?” Carlos nods, twisting the hem of his t-shirt between restless fingers. Cecil crosses the kitchen in a few long strides and wraps Carlos in his arms, squeezing gently. “What needs to get done today?” Cecil asks, and Carlos is immeasurably glad it's Sunday and not a work day for either of them.

“We need groceries, and I have a quick errand to run at the lab. Just need to check on a couple cultures, make sure they haven't sprouted fangs or wings or anything.” One time something actually did grow limbs over the weekend, and since then Carlos likes to check in on experiments daily.

“Well,” Cecil says, “how about we do the lab first, and we can get you a treat at the grocery store so it feels more like a reward than a chore. Sound good?” It does sound good, even though Carlos's chest tightens at the thought of leaving the house, let alone going into a crowded grocery store. If it was just him, he'd get by on the ramen stashed in the pantry until he felt up to shopping again. The last time he did that, it took almost two weeks and a grad student asking if he'd been checked for cancer lately before he'd gotten up the nerve to buy real food again.

Cecil goes to the counter and pours his coffee into a to-go mug, grabs the grocery list off the refrigerator, and returns to Carlos grinning again.

“I'll drive, you just sit tight and think about what you want. Ice cream, fancy wine, those weird 'plain' oreos you like so much... Anything you want. Deal?” Carlos looks up at Cecil, thinks briefly about the butterflies he feels when that smile is directed at him, the heady feeling that has nothing to do with his anxious brain chemistry. He returns the smile, and it's genuine.

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carlos having an anxiety disorder/depression is one of my favorite headcanons at the moment. Poor lil scientist. <3


	3. Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos really hates the desert.

Sand.

Fucking sand.

Of course he would have to end up in a goddamn desert, and not even the high desert of northern California with its scrubby trees and grass patching the rough soil. No, it had to be sand desert.

Carlos likes things clean, and tidy. He's not a neat freak by any means, but he keeps things organized. After he moves to Night Vale it becomes a monumental task.

His shoes mysteriously fill with sand every time he leaves the lab. It gets into the pockets of his lab coat, finds its way into his hair, of all places. The door opens and a gust of air sends particles flying into the lab, into his apartment. He sweeps all the time, yet keeps finding piles of the stuff under desks and gathering in corners.

He is afraid to open windows, even at the height of summer. The breeze helps to alleviate the scorching heat, but the sand- the constant build-up of particulates, getting into the equipment, into their food, into everything- makes him more inclined to just crank up the AC.

He doesn't know how they stand it, the air constantly grating on his skin, the unavoidable mess grating on his nerves. And no one seems to notice it.

Cecil clucks sympathetically when Carlos breaks out the broom and dustpan for the third time in as many days.

“I could help you with that,” he offers. Carlos holds the broom out to him, but Cecil just laughs and shakes his head. “No, I mean I can keep it from getting in.” Carlos raises an eyebrow.

“How?”

It turns out there is a specific ritual, requiring only a little blood and some chanting, that will keep out “unwanted entities.” Apparently that applies to sand, too. Carlos laughs a little hysterically as Cecil explains it, and resigns himself to slicing his hand open every few weeks as long as it means no more sweeping.

Fucking sand.


	4. Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smutty chapter - Carlos loves the way Cecil tastes.

Cecil's skin tastes like the desert.

 

Carlos takes his time to explore all of it, every possible inch, with his hands and mouth. He tastes like a sunset, all heat and bright colors, a synesthesia Carlos never thought he could experience. The tang of his sweat, natural pheromones, salty sweet on his tongue as he mouths along shoulders, collarbones, and down. When he ducks his head to lap at Cecil's cock, relishing the taste of the stray drop of precum he gets in reward, he can practically taste the sounds Cecil makes, the low groan that vibrates through the air to his eardrums and straight down his spine.

 

Everything feels too much, too warm, too loud. He tunes it out to focus on just the taste, one sense enough to satisfy him without overwhelming.

 

“Salt,” he mutters into Cecil's hip, stroking a pale thigh with one hand. Cecil stirs beneath him, one of his long-fingered hands coming to rest in Carlos's hair.

 

“Carlos? Darling?” Cecil's voice sends shocks through Carlos, setting his skin on fire. He presses his face into that expanse of skin and exhales, feeling Cecil's responding shiver.

 

“I was just thinking,” he says a bit louder. “I was thinking, that you taste like salt and light, like the last rays of the sun on the mesas before it passes below the horizon.” Cecil's smirk is audible in his next comment.

 

“And you said you weren't a poet, my wonderful, perfect-”

 

Carlos cuts him off by taking his cock as deep as he can, feeling it bump the back of his throat. It cuts Cecil's praises off mid-stream and transforms them into that deep, throaty moan that Carlos loves to hear. He spends a few minutes going all out, pushing Cecil closer to the edge until he finally swallows around him, and Cecil is coming into his mouth, scalding hot and perfect. He crawls back up the bed and curls against Cecil, eyes closed, still savoring that exquisite taste even as Cecil wraps a hand around his erection, stroking him quickly through his own orgasm.

 

By the time he recovers enough to open his eyes, Cecil is asleep, snoring gently into his shoulder. They're sticky, sweat-drenched, and the room is stuffy, but Carlos can't bring himself to move. He falls asleep like that, mouthing at Cecil's neck, chasing that one last taste of desert air, of salt and sand.

 


	5. Clip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last time Carlos got a haircut, Cecil drove a man out of town and left him wandering the sand wastes with nary a shred of sanity left.

The last time Carlos got a haircut, Cecil drove a man out of town and left him wandering the sand wastes with nary a shred of sanity left. But it's been months, and Carlos's hair is getting too long even for him. He keeps it tamed into a ponytail most days, a thick mane brushed back from his face but still managing to get in the way at the least convenient moments.

 

After the incident with the bunsen burner, he decides it needs a trim. But if there is anyone left in town who will touch his hair and risk Cecil's wrath, he doesn't know who that person might be. He supposes he could cut it himself, but he knows he doesn't have the skill to make it look good.

 

He knocks three times on the back door of Big Rico's, shifting his weight nervously as he waits for someone to answer the door. To his shock, it is Rico himself who opens the door, looming over him and smirking menacingly.

 

“Carlos The Scientist, what a surprise!” Rico says jovially, clapping a large hand to Carlos's shoulder. “To what do I owe this honor?”

 

“I need to call in a favor,” Carlos says gravely, reaching into the pocket of his lab coat. He raises his hand, clutching the object he had shoved into his pocket hastily as he left the lab: a shining pair of razor-sharp scissors. Rico pales noticeably.

 

“Mr. Scientist, I don't know if I can-”

 

“You can,” Carlos snaps, “and you will. Any one of your men will do, though I might choose someone expendable. If you have someone with any talent, there might be... leniency.” Rico gulps and steps aside, letting Carlos into the back room of the pizzeria.

 

An hour and only a few tears later, Carlos slinks out the back door of the shop with several inches less hair. The poor lackey chosen for the task collects the clippings into a bag and carries them to the dumpster, saying a prayer before tossing them in. It's only a matter of time now. He falls to his knees, and weeps.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really pleased with how BAMF Carlos is in this bit. This is probably my favorite kind of Carlos: soft and sappy when he's with Cecil, safe, but the second there is danger or shit needs to be dealt with he is ON IT and UNSTOPPABLE. He is tough as fucking nails when he has to be.
> 
> Also this is totally my headcanon for Big Rico: he's the man you go to in Night Vale when you need something impossible done. He can pull all the strings, twist anyone's arm until they're begging to give you favors, and he always pays his debts. Always.


	6. Bread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos cooks breakfast for Cecil.

Cecil wakes to the smell of something delicious being cooked in their kitchen. He lifts his head and squints at the clock on his bedside table, bleary-eyed and briefly unsure of whether it's morning or night. The numbers look like 11-something, and it isn't dark, so he figures it's probably daytime (unless the sun just decided to stay up particularly late today). He stretches, yawns, and fumbles for his glasses. The world clears before his eyes and he reaches down to find the underwear he discarded off the side of the bed the night before.

 

He plods lazily down the hall to the kitchen- _our kitchen!_ His mind still shouts, even three weeks after they finally moved into the place; he's ecstatic to call everything _ours_ after all this time- and admires Carlos standing at the stove with a spatula in one hand, leaning on the other arm braced on the counter. He's making something with eggs, probably an omelet, and in another pan he has some potatoes and peppers diced and fried just the way they both like. And beside him, off to the side on the counter, is-

 

“Carlos!” Cecil gasps, both hands flying up to his face in shock. “Carlos! Is that- TOAST?!” Carlos is startled, almost dropping the spatula in his haste to turn around and face his boyfriend. His cheeks flush noticeably.

 

“Keep it down, Ceec!” he whispers, eyes darting toward the window, and then to the ceiling light where he knows a small microphone is (poorly) hidden. “It's just some _wheat-free rice bread_ ,” he says more loudly, winking at Cecil.

 

“Oh,” Cecil says, nodding slightly. He grins suddenly and bounces across the small space, wrapping his arms around Carlos's waist. “Of _course_ it's some lovely _municipally approved_ wheat-free bread, bought at Ralph's, with receipt available for inspection should anyone even need to question that sort of thing,” he says directly towards the microphone. He winks back at Carlos, who rolls his eyes and goes back to cooking, flipping the omelet expertly.

 

Cecil inhales deeply, the scent of real toasted bread sending his head spinning from joy- and the thrill of breaking the rules. Carlos does this all the time- eating bread, using pens, reading scientific journals that he has shipped to their home in discreet brown packaging- but Cecil still gets goosebumps every time he does it, every time he thinks about the risk Carlos is taking. It's _super fucking hot._

 

He kisses Carlos on the cheek and goes to set the table, eager to enjoy another breakfast with his wonderful boyfriend, in their new home. And maybe he will even partake of that forbidden wheat product, just a bite, just to see the look of satisfaction on Carlos's face when he hums at the perfect taste, and texture, of _real_ bread.

 


	7. Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil decides to take Carlos fishing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one decided it wanted to be a longer story. Also, I did way more research than I intended to about Cecil's car.

The sun is barely peeking over the horizon as Cecil jams the rest of the gear into the back of his car. It's a Citroen from the 1940s, remarkably well maintained, painted an absolutely obnoxious shade of purple. Cecil has had it for as long as he can remember, and he loves dearly- no matter how much _Steve Carlsberg_ teases him about it. He stows the last box and tosses a blanket over everything in the backseat just as Carlos comes out the front door, yawning and rubbing his still-bleary eyes.

 

“Good morning sleepyhead,” Cecil says fondly, shutting the car door with his foot. Carlos grumbles something incoherent and walks over to join him in the driveway.

 

“I still don't get why we had to get up at dawn,” he grunts, pulling Cecil into a hug and then leaning on him heavily. “How are you not tired?”

 

“I am far too excited about your surprise to be tired!” Cecil replies, grinning. “Plus I already had my coffee. Don't worry, I have a travel cup made up for you.” Carlos moans something about Cecil being insane, and far too functional when the sun is barely even up, but he climbs into the car and settles in with his coffee and seems a bit happier. He closes his eyes and smiles serenely after the first sip, dropping his head back against the seat and sighing.

 

Cecil walks to the back of the car to check the fuel level- the car is so old that it originally had no way to tell how much gas he had without fiddling with a dipstick, but Carlos had insisted on installing a fuel gauge for him. Cecil had only agreed if Carlos could do it without compromising the car's fuel efficiency, and its aesthetic. Carlos rolled his eyes a little at that, but he managed to rig up a small gauge on the exterior of the car. No more dipsticks! Cecil has to admit, it is quite an improvement. Thankfully they won't have to stop at the gas station- they have plenty to get to their destination and back.

 

He hops in and starts the car, backs it out of the driveway, and they're off on their little adventure. Cecil has the whole day planned out, and he can't wait to reveal the big surprise. They trundle down Route 800 for a ways, before Cecil takes an exit that leads them out toward the sand wastes. Carlos looks confused, and vaguely concerned. What kind of surprise takes place out in the middle of the desert?

 

After another couple minutes, a sign looms into view: “Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreational Area! This is just a mass hallucination! Nothing to see here!” painted in tall, cheerful lettering. Carlos raises an eyebrow.

 

“What exactly are we going to do at a harbor in the middle of a desert?” Cecil just smiles widely as he pulls the car up to an abandoned boardwalk half-buried in tumbleweeds. He puts the car in park and leans over the seat to pull the blanket aside, revealing tackle boxes and a couple of fishing poles.

 

“We're going fishing!” he exclaims brightly, eagerly awaiting Carlos's reaction. Carlos falters for only half a second before he grins back at Cecil. Fishing at a waterfront with no water is, surprisingly, not the strangest thing he's done in Night Vale.

 

They unpack the gear from the back of the car, Cecil folding the blanket to tuck it into a picnic basket full of sandwiches and one green plaid thermos. They haul everything up onto the boardwalk, and head out onto the pier. It's not terribly high, but there's enough room underneath for a few shrubs, more tumbleweeds, and a couple of suspicious looking lizards. They set up at the end of the pier, legs dangling over the edge as Cecil gets their rods ready. Carlos resists the urge to ask if they'll be fishing for tarantulas, as he knows Cecil has gotten quite friendly with the family of arachnids currently living in their laundry room. He'd probably find the joke in poor taste.

 

They cast their lines out into the sand wastes, and wait. It's exactly as peaceful and relaxing as regular fishing, from what Carlos remembers. His dad took him a few times as a child, spending the day on a neighbor's small boat out on the little lake just outside of town. They never caught much, but it was always quiet, serene. The sun is climbing higher in the sky, now, but it is still cool. They sit like that, silent, for quite a while. Eventually Cecil starts fidgeting.

 

“I usually get a bite by now,” he complains, brow furrowed at the slack line trailing out into the desert. Carlos chuckles and grabs the picnic basket, fishing out a sandwich and giving half to Cecil.

 

“Breakfast time, then. They won't bite if you're staring at the line, everyone knows that.” He's going for humor, but Cecil's expression remains solemn as he nods and takes a bite of the sandwich. It's bologna and some sort of jam, maybe apricot? Cecil forgot to check exactly what fruit it was made of when he was making the sandwiches that morning.

 

It's been two hours since they arrived, and still nothing happens. Cecil hopes Carlos isn't disappointed in the surprise, hopes he doesn't think this is _boring_.

 

But then one of the lines goes taut, jerking the pole where it's wedged into the boards of the pier, knocking it into Carlos's hip. He manages to catch it before the whole thing gets dragged out into the wastes, surprise at anything actually biting flooding his system with adrenaline.

 

“Finally!” Cecil says dramatically, hoisting himself back up onto the pier so he can stand behind Carlos. “It looks like something pretty big!”

 

Carlos starts reeling in whatever the thing is, hoping it's not one of the feral dogs or the coyotes he's seen loitering out back of the Ralph's, smoking cigarettes and growling ominously while he carries his groceries to the car.

 

Whatever it is, it's putting up a fight. The line gets dragged this way and that, going taut and then slack in turns. Finally he gets it within sight of the pier, Cecil clapping a hand on his shoulder and crowing with delight. Carlos is gobsmacked.

 

It's a fish.

 

A real, live, flopping fish, with long, sharp-looking fins. It glistens in the morning sun, and Carlos thinks if fish could glare this one would be giving him the evil eye. Cecil taps him on the shoulder urgently.

 

“Can I pull it in the rest of the way?” he asks, still grinning. “I'll let you cut it free once we get it up, I've always been a little squeamish about that part.” Carlos gladly hands the pole to Cecil and watches as he reels the fish in the rest of the way. It's not a _huge_ fish by any means, but it's decently sized, about the length of his forearm.

 

Cecil gives a final tug and the fish is airborne, sailing upwards to land on the pier next to them. He scrambles back, away from the fish, holding the rod steadily in front of him. This, Cecil thinks, is the dangerous part. He turns to tell Carlos to grab the gloves out of the tackle box, but Carlos is already moving to grab the line and wrapping a hand around the fish's tail. Cecil squeaks a warning, but it's too late.

 

The fish writhes in Carlos's grip, folding itself practically in half and sinking long teeth into his arm. It clamps down, and squirms, thrashing its fins about angrily. Carlos yelps and starts flailing as well, trying to pull the fish off. This, of course, only makes it clamp down harder.

 

Cecil thinks frantically back to his boy scout days. He knows he earned the Sand Fish Removal badge at some point, but it takes him a moment to recall the skill. He grabs Carlos by the arm and holds him still, fish continuing to thrash wildly. He takes a second to steel his nerves, reaches out, and starts tickling the fish right behind the gills. The fish immediately lets go, spraying blood everywhere, and flops out of his grip and off the edge of the pier.

 

Carlos sinks to his knees and tries not to keel over, holding his arm gingerly. It's bleeding pretty heavily, but the cuts don't look too deep. Cecil kneels beside him and makes him hold his arm out. He fishes out a water bottle, uncaps it, and rinses the wound, cooing as he does it.

 

“Oh, poor Carlos, my dear sweet Carlos,” he sighs. “I should have warned you earlier. The sand fish are very dangerous if you're not wearing gloves.” He gestures to the yellow kitchen gloves in the tackle box, which don't look like they would provide much protection. “Sand fish hate the taste of latex,” he clarifies. Carlos nods, stunned.

 

Luckily Cecil brought a first aid kit, as this does happen fairly often with beginner fishermen. They wrap up Carlos's arm, and Cecil finishes it with a kiss and a short chant. He wrinkles his nose at the amount of blood coating Carlos's shirt, pants, and the pier.

 

“I guess that's probably enough fishing for one day,” he says, just a bit sad. The day didn't go nearly as well as he had hoped. It's barely noon, and there's already been boredom and an injury. But Carlos just smiles at him again, and kisses him gently on the lips.

 

“It's okay, Ceec. I had fun. But maybe we should stick with catching our fish at the grocery store, instead.” They both laugh at that, and start packing up. On the way home, they eat more sandwiches and giggle about their new fish story. By the time they reach the house, Cecil is swearing the fish was as big as the Glow Cloud itself- _all hail_ \- and tried to rip Carlos's arm right off. Carlos just smiles and shakes his head.

 

Cecil, of course, talks about it on the show, so Carlos ends up with several gift baskets and get-well-soon cards, and also a note from Josie in neat, clean calligraphy saying: “Stay away from the sand fish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Cecil's car](http://www.lowtechmagazine.com/2008/06/citroen-2cv.html), in case you were wondering. But in bright purple.


	8. Race

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janice enters a boxcar race. Carlos and Cecil are helpful uncles.

Carlos drops the screwdriver back into his toolbox and stands up, admiring his work. The boxcar is sturdy, as sleek as something made of plywood can be, and it should be easy for Janice to steer. All it needs now is a coat of paint. From the corner of the garage, Cecil claps and proclaims their victory.

 

“What do you mean, _we_ did it? You just stood over there and pointed at things and drank lemonade the whole time!” Carlos scoffs playfully, hands on his hips. Cecil shrugs.

 

“I'm not a scientist, I don't know anything about boxcar construction.”

 

“Well neither do I, but it looks like it should hold up. Think Janice will like it?” As he finishes asking, the girl in question comes around the corner of the house, wheeling herself into the open garage. She squeals and covers her face with her hands.

 

“Ohmygosh, Uncle Carlos! It's perfect!” She gets closer to inspect the finer details, and offers Carlos a very enthusiastic hug. “We'll win the boxcar race for sure with this.”

 

“All that's left is to paint it,” Cecil chimes in, mildly annoyed at being left out of his niece's gushing praise and thanks. “I was thinking purple.”

 

“You want to paint everything purple,” Janice groans. “I told you, my favorite color is _green_ now, Uncle Cecil!” She laughs at how affronted Cecil looks, and thanks him for his help too. Cecil grumbles something about _Steve_ not being any help at all, but stops when Janice rolls her eyes at him.

 

“Scientifically speaking, green _is_ a very fast color,” Carlos adds. Janice grins, Cecil concedes, and they decide to paint the whole car a violently neon shade of electric green.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another very short one. I'm trying to get these done a little more evenly-spaced, but we'll see how that goes. :)


	9. Poor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos has some odd habits. Cecil wants to understand them.

When he finds Carlos's rainy day fund, a small jar of random change and crumpled bills tucked away into a dark corner of the closet, Cecil doesn't question it. He doesn't question, either, why Carlos always insists on patching his old jeans, so worn in the knees that any wrong movement could tear a new hole, fraying at the hems so badly that he sometimes trips over the loose strands, instead of just buying new ones. (He does the same for his lab coats, though they are sometimes harder to repair when they've been lit on fire, or doused in some corrosive chemical, or simply eaten by the moths the faceless old woman lets in when she's upset.)

 

Cecil doesn't question the coupon-clipping, the insistence on off-brand detergent, or Carlos's occasional reluctance to eat at restaurants too close to the end of the month.

 

They finally talk about it when Cecil has to force Carlos to buy some new shoes, _good_ shoes, that won't fall apart when he's doing science out in the desert. His old sneakers are fine for the lab, but Cecil will not have his boyfriend wandering the sand wastes without something sturdy, made of leather and with tough soles.

 

“Why is it always so hard to get you to buy things? Not even frivolous things, but _necessities?_ ” Cecil might snap a little more than he intended, but he's frustrated and worried and these feelings are not conducive to calm, rational discussions. Carlos looks taken aback, and honestly a little confused, like he never really thought about it. He shakes his head, and Cecil huffs and drops the subject, fuming silently until they reach the shoe store and Carlos is trying on some heavy-looking work boots.

 

“When I was a kid, my family didn't have a lot of money,” Carlos says softly, keeping his hands busy re-lacing one of the boots. “There were three of us kids, and my Mamá worked a few jobs to keep us all fed. I guess I never really grew out of the mindset. Save everything, because you might not get more.”

 

Cecil stares at Carlos in profile, willing him to look up from his shoes, but he never was good at telepathy. Carlos looks _embarrassed_ , and Cecil's chest tightens at the thought that he caused that.

 

“I didn't know,” Cecil says just as gently. “I'm sorry I made a big deal out of it. I was just... I worry about you.” Carlos does look up, then, and he smiles at Cecil, just a little. It's not the grin Cecil loves so dearly, but it's a start. He takes Carlos's hand and brings it to his lips, kissing his knuckles.

 

“I know you worry about me.” Carlos pulls his hand away and settles it on Cecil's thigh. “But you take such good care of me... I guess I just need to work a little harder at taking care of me, too.” Cecil kisses the tip of his nose, and that brings out the grin he's been waiting for. They exchange 'I love you's, pay for the shoes, and go home. And if Cecil starts secretly contributing to the rainy day fund, well. Carlos isn't going to question it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on this to avoid working on the next part of my tentacle smut series to avoid working on my original fiction that I started for NaNoWriMo and haven't finished yet. The procrastination levels over here are astounding.
> 
> P.S. I'm also on [Tumblr](http://felinicity.tumblr.com/) a bit more now.


	10. Rich

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil thinks Marcus Vansten is wonderful. Carlos gets a wee bit jealous.

“Have I mentioned lately what a wonderful person Marcus is?” Cecil asks dreamily. It's the third time in as many days that he's started gushing over the local billionaire, who just so happens to be throwing a very exclusive party that weekend. Cecil snagged an invitation, in part because he is The Voice of Night Vale, and partly, Carlos suspects, because of his propensity for wearing tight clothing to fancy events. Carlos just grits his teeth and prepares himself for another onslaught.

 

“You may have mentioned it once or twice,” he grunts, going back to his current project: taking apart the lab's microwave, which decided last week to start cooling things instead of heating them. He tries to let Cecil's words wash over him without focusing on the content, but there's only so much he can ignore.

 

“-and he is _quite_ handsome, and so generous whenever the community radio fundraiser comes around. I'd love to get an interview with him, but he's just so busy all the time. Maybe at the party I'll be able to get him alone for a few minutes-”

 

Carlos snaps. “Sure, wonderful, go off and spend time with the rich, famous, _handsome_ Marcus Vansten. I'll just be over here elbow deep in microwave components, if you ever feel like talking about something _else_.” The sudden silence is overwhelming. He tries to stay in that moment of anger, but he already regrets it and hopes Cecil isn't too peeved. But when he looks up, Cecil is grinning widely, almost predatory.

 

“My dearest, darling Carlos,” he says, stalking across the room like a wild cat approaching its prey. “Are you _jealous_ of Marcus Vansten? I know I talk about him a lot sometimes, what with how generous and good and wealthy he is-” Carlos snorts derisively, but braces himself because Cecil is actually creeping him out a little. “But surely you must know, my love, that _you_ are the only man I want to share my life- and my bed- with.”

 

By the last word he has perched himself neatly over Carlos's lap, hands resting on Carlos's shoulders. He's still smiling that spooky smile, and Carlos figures out what's going on a second after Cecil's hand slides down, over his chest, and his fingers curl just below the waistband of his jeans.

 

“You're- um. Turned on. By me being jealous?” Carlos blurts it out, stammering his way through the thought and hoping he's not being a complete idiot.

 

“Well, I wouldn't say by _jealousy_ , exactly, but there really is nothing more attractive than knowing the man you love might disembowel someone over you.” Cecil kisses him, heatedly, and Carlos hesitates for just a moment before kissing back. This is probably the least weird thing he's encountered in Night Vale, but it's still bizarre.  
  
“Ceec, I am not disemboweling anyone. Though I might find a way to turn his fire sprinklers on in the middle of the party if he so much as puts a hand on you.” Cecil throws his head back in mock ecstasy, giggling.

 

“Oh, _Carlos!_ Defend my honor with science!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, dweebs in love. <3 I'm still reeling from last night's episode, so I am going to keep writing fluff to cheer myself up.


	11. Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos and Cecil talk about middle names.

“So... Gershwin?”

 

He waited a couple weeks before brining it up, since the whole cassette tape incident left Cecil pretty upset. Carlos is still tiptoeing around the subject, and probably will be for a while. He's never been good at addressing these things directly.

 

Cecil gives him a look, eyebrow quirked up in confusion. “Yes?” he says, shrugging. “That's my middle name. It's an old family name, I think.”

 

“I just thought it was pretty odd. It's not a name you hear a lot anymore.”

 

“Pff, it's not that weird. No weirder than your middle name.”

 

Carlos pauses for a moment, thinking.

 

“Cecil, I don't think I've ever actually told you my middle name.”

 

“You mean it isn't 'The'?” The look on Cecil's face, so open and completely unaware of the absurdity of that comment, sends Carlos into a fit of giggles.

 

“Oh my god, Ceec, no, my middle name is Mateo!” He continues laughing for a minute, and Cecil eventually cracks a smile and chuckles a little, too.

 

“Oh. Okay, Carlos Mateo The Scientist. That's a lovely name.”

 

Carlos just sighs and pulls Cecil into a hug. He'll leave talk of surnames for another day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Cecil, you cute little dweeb. <3


	12. Vault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil and Carlos venture into the bowels of City Hall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am mostly ignoring the canon description of City Hall's basement from the heist episode. Also I didn't really edit this, so. *shrug*

Carlos has never been inside city hall, mostly because he's terrified of the City Council, but also because he's never really had any reason to go there. But after their third date, when he let slip that he did think of Cecil as his _boyfriend_ , Cecil informed him giddily that they would need to fill out the proper forms to make it official. That's how he ended up here, trailing behind Cecil down a dimly-lit staircase with a backpack of what appears to be spelunking gear. He didn't want to ask Cecil about it before they left.

 

They reach the bottom of the stairs and Cecil motions for Carlos to turn around so he can get into the pack. He pulls out two headlamps, as well as a large handheld flashlight and a coil of rope. He ties one end around his own waist, and hands the rest to Carlos.

 

“Tie on at the other end, and hold onto the slack. I usually do this alone, and I wouldn't want to lose you down here. The morlocks might get you.” He says it so seriously that Carlos just nods and does as he's told, only vaguely worried about what might be living down here. Cecil referred to it as the basement of city hall, but he's making it sound more like some kind of cave, or dungeon.

 

When Cecil pushes the door open, Carlos sees why they need the supplies.

 

The room they enter is, in fact, a room- the walls appear to be rough-hewn stone, definitely not the kind of cave made by normal tectonic shifts or underground rivers. Carlos looks up to see high arches, and strange figures carved into the ceiling like massive unearthly gargoyles. It's dark, almost pitch-black, and wherever his light hits it feels almost like the stone absorbs it, the beam glinting weakly and illuminating only small patches. Cecil lets him stand and stare for a few minutes, mouth agape, before he tugs gently on Carlos's hand and beckons him onward.

 

They cross the room, steps echoing in the cavernous space, moving toward a dark archway in the far wall. The archway leads into a tunnel with a low ceiling, just wide enough for them to walk single-file and narrowing in places so that they have to turn sideways and shimmy through the tight gaps. They finally pass through another stone archway into another cave-like room. The process continues, their path winding through several rooms, each becoming less and less room-like. Eventually they are climbing across rocky floors carved by ancient shifts in the earth, the air getting more and more humid the deeper they go. Carlos thinks there must still be some underground lake or river down here, for all the moss and moisture in the air. He almost slips on a slick patch of stone, stumbling into Cecil, who is passing the beam of the flashlight over the wall closest to them.

 

“Ah! There's the door!” Cecil turns to the right, pulling Carlos along until they come to a door. It's actually a door, much like the ones in any normal office building: wood, with a shiny silver knob, set into a sturdy-looking doorframe. The only difference is that it is set in a solid rock wall. Cecil turns the knob and yanks the door open, and they both have to stand and blink for a moment at the bright light that spills out.

 

Behind the door is a small office, nicely decorated, and exceedingly well lit. The carpet is a tasteful beige that would suit any official space, and in the middle of the room is a desk. It's a large wooden desk that appears quite old, but in good condition. Atop the desk is a large stack of papers, a very old computer, and several official-looking stamps. Behind the desk and the paperwork sits a woman. She has gray hair pulled into a neat bun, and small circular glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looks up when they come in and smiles immediately.

 

“Hello Cecil, dearie,” she says in a raspy voice. Carlos can tell she doesn't speak often, her voice cracking from disuse. “What brings you in today?”

 

“I need to fill out some forms. Edith, this is my _boyfriend_ , Carlos!”

 

Edith fixes Carlos with a warm gaze, taking in his slightly disheveled appearance. Apparently he is satisfactory because she smiles at him and motions toward the chairs in front of the desk. They both sit and Edith turns her chair to open a drawer in the filing cabinet behind her. It is then that Carlos notices the back wall of the room: it is completely covered in floor-to-ceiling file cabinets.

 

“Well, I'm glad to see you finally come in,” Edith says conversationally. “After all, I've seen your name on all sorts of forms Cecil drops off. Date reports, Sexual Fantasy approvals, Daydreams and Wistful Longings- he had to fill out a few of those.” She raises an eyebrow at Cecil, who is currently blushing and hiding his face in his hands.

 

“Edith, please, those were supposed to be _confidential_ ,” he moans, sliding down in his chair in a feeble attempt to hide his embarrassment. Carlos thinks it's absolutely _adorable_.

 

“Wait,” he says suddenly. “There are forms for those things? Are they, you know, mandatory?” He feels himself blushing a bit, too. How was he supposed to know that such personal feelings required paperwork? Night Vale's invasive level of bureaucracy is something he's still struggling to get used to.

 

“Oh, of course not,” Edith replies. “They are recommended for proper monitoring by the secret police, but Cecil here just _really enjoys_ filling out forms. And visiting me, of course. Isn't that right, dear?” She taps a stack of papers into order on the desk and Cecil mumbles something from behind his hands, still pressed firmly to his face. Edith laughs roughly and hands the forms across the desk to Carlos. “He'll be fine, just fill these out and put them under your doormat when you're done. Or you can come back and give them to me in person.”

 

Carlos thanks her and stands, taking Cecil's hand and turning back toward the door to the caves. Cecil is still flushed and stuttering, muttering about municipal oversharing.

 

“Wouldn't you like to take the elevator back up?” Edith asks before Carlos gets to the door. “It'll save you some time and it's much less dark.” Carlos stops and turns back toward the desk, narrowing his eyes at Cecil.

 

“There's an elevator?” he asks accusingly. Cecil continues stammering and shifting his weight from foot to foot, wringing his hands. Edith gestures at a second door in the adjacent wall and nods.

 

“I just thought, you know. Caves are much more scientifically interesting.”

 

Carlos just sighs and drags Cecil out the other door, ready to head home through the relative safety of an elevator and clean, tiled hallways.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 4th birthday, Night Vale~


	13. Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos is a criminal.

“So I was talking to Josie and the angels today-”

Carlos is making tea in their kitchen, leaning against the counter while the kettle heats up, and Cecil shushes him aggressively in the middle of the sentence.

“Angels aren't real,” Cecil says, crossing the kitchen and leaning down to say it into the microphone hidden inside their blender. “Carlos is completely aware of this, and knows the laws about acknowledging angels, so he was totally not just acknowledging angels because that would just be utterly ridiculous right Carlos?” His volume increases steadily throughout his monologue to the blender until he's practically shouting, and Carlos just sighs and shakes his head.

“Right Cecil.”

“Anyway, what's for dinner?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one I found when I started writing again tonight. I apparently forgot to post it when I actually wrote it, oooops.


	14. Photograph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are strange photographs in Cecil's basement.

There are strange photographs in Cecil's basement.

He goes down there sometimes, late at night when he can't pretend to sleep, and goes through his old photo albums. They are full of memories, and they never help. Half the photographs he doesn't even remember, no matter how many times he looks through them.

A snapshot of a young boy in breeches and suspenders, standing with his mother and sister in front of a rickety Victorian house, pinwheels stuck into the flower beds in a state of permanent stillness. A sepia toned portrait of a family mired in grief. In the window, a man's face can be seen several feet back from the glass, or maybe just a smudge. His eyes are dark holes in a pale blur, his gaping mouth screaming to be remembered.

A later picture, a Polaroid, of two teenagers clad in bellbottoms and tie dye, the shorter of the two staring at his friend. His hair is the color of a sunset, his eyes dark, and he looks at the other with an expression akin to hunger. His hands hover close to his friend's skin, so close, and yet never touching. The other boy is oblivious, grinning at the camera and flashing a peace sign.

A black and white still of an older teen standing in front of a radio station, solemn but excited. The smile he tries to suppress sneaks through at the corners of his mouth, the slightest crinkling of his eyes. An older gentleman in a suit stands behind him at the door, a look of terror plastered across his face.

A photo of a man in the midst of his life, dressed casually, looking into the camera at the one taking the picture. The look in his eyes conveys the love he feels, and the fear. His lips are parted in confused greeting, caught off guard, unsure of what the next moment will bring. Hands outstretched, he beckons the photographer closer.

That last one is new, Cecil thinks. Though it could be old, for all he knows. They are arranged in different ways each time he looks, never quite chronological, following no true pattern. Sepia mixed with color mixed with grainy blurry prints that may not even be photographs. They all show the same subject, but he is different in every one, not quite recognizable even to himself.

When he is done looking, Cecil closes the album and sets it away in its dust-covered box. He climbs the stairs back into the house, to his room, to his bed where his husband sleeps peacefully. Tucked under the covers once more, he stares at the ceiling until the sun begins to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My triumphant return to writing has come. In the spirit of Camp NaNoWriMo I will be trying to update this for the remainder of the month, and hopefully get my writing juices flowing enough to tackle some bigger writing projects. Wish me luck, I'm gonna need it.


	15. Quill

Carlos takes notes on a bright yellow legal pad when he's out in the field. Science requires copious amounts of note-taking, and carrying a laptop into the sand wastes is terribly inefficient. In the desert otherworld, his computer never needed charging, but there are no electric outlets in the deserts around Night Vale.

Wind blows dust devils around his ankles as he kneels to check his equipment. It hums and beeps and whirs, spitting out numbers that Carlos dutifully takes down onto his notepad, scratching out the numbers in his slanting, looping handwriting. In the distance, a bird croaks.

Suddenly a new noise joins the sounds of wind and bird, a siren slowly growing louder and louder. Carlos stands and turns, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. The glare off the top of the Secret Police car moves steadily closer.

It pulls up beside him in a cloud of dust, two Secret Police officers stepping out of the vehicle with sunglasses perched on their noses. One sniffs, then wipes at his nose with a handkerchief. The other produces a small tablet from his back pocket, and begins typing into it furiously.

“Suspect located on the edge of the sand wastes,” he says aloud as he types. The handkerchief officer steps up to Carlos and looks apologetic but stern.

“Sir, we have been informed that you are in possession of an illegal pen. We will have to search your equipment and person in order to locate the contraband material.”

Carlos has had a few run-ins with the Secret Police, but since his fourth time saving the town they tend to turn a blind eye to his shenanigans. Today, though, someone was looking for trouble. He sighs and holds up his writing implement. It glitters black in the sun, pointed tip dripping a small amount of ink.

“Gentlemen, if you would care to inspect it I think you will find that this is not, in fact, a pen. It's a quill.”

The tablet officer wrinkles his nose, and looks closer at the item in Carlos's hand. It is, in fact, an old-fashioned quill pen. There isn't even a metal nib on it, the end of the feather carefully carved into a point. Handkerchief officer snorts, snatching it away from Carlos.

“Well, it's still a pen isn't it? It holds ink and lets you write.” He inspects it closely. Tablet officer nods in agreement.

“Ah, but it is actually just a feather,” Carlos says. “A raven's feather, to be specific. And I do believe avian anatomy is a legally protected group of items.”

The officers both groan. “Per city law, statute 58, section 7, all avian body parts, internal or otherwise, are legally protected from all search and seizure except in the case of demonic summonings,” the tablet officer recites. They both look utterly put out. Carlos sighs and pulls the nub of an old pencil out of his pocket.

“If it makes you feel better, I have this completely illegal pencil you can take?”

The officers glance at each other, and handkerchief officer snatches it from him and offers the feather back to him.

“Just keep your nose out of trouble,” he grumbles. “We're keeping an eye on you. As always.”

“Have a pleasant day!” Carlos rebuts, putting on his most charming smile. The two officers get back into their car and back away, disappearing into the cloud of dust kicked up by their tires. Carlos shrugs to himself and goes back to his notes, a bit annoyed by the interruption, but no worse for wear. He dips the sharp point of the quill into a small pot of ink, and continues his notes.


	16. Punch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earl Harlan participates in a Fight Club.

Earl stepped into the ring and sized up his opponent, cracking his knuckles before getting into his usual stance. It was a barista that day, a lanky man with a handlebar mustache and a tattoo of a rooster on his forearm. He had a red bandana wrapped around one of his hands. Earl glanced down at the tape around his own knuckles, then nodded to the other man in the universal gesture of “I'm ready.”

 

They circled each other, each holding fists in front of them as the gathered crowd watched in rapt silence. The first punch was thrown, and the mob erupted into cheers.

 

Twice a month, Earl attended these little fights down in the caves of the barista district. It was a good way to blow off steam, and if he timed it right he could be home before Roger got home from band practice. He needed the catharsis that day, particularly. He had just gotten done with a segment of Cooking Stuff with Earl Harlan at the radio station, and tried to talk to Cecil about something that had been bothering him. But Cecil, for all his lovely quirks, was not always the most attentive friend. Earl was brushed off, again. He was mad, but more than that he couldn't help but fixate afterwards on how close they used to be, how they spent their teenage years inseparable.

 

He ducked a nasty jab from the barista, and thought of their years in the boy scouts as he landed a neat hook to the barista's shoulder. Not an excellent hit, but a hit nonetheless. When he and Cecil were young, they spent many weekends camping in the sand wastes to earn various merit badges. Desert Survival, of course, but so many others as well. Cactus Taming, Pyrokinesis, and Sand Divination were more difficult, but more rewarding.

 

But then Cecil got his job at the radio station, and it was like Earl dropped off the face of the earth. Suddenly it was all about his future, his career, and the hours upon hours spent in the dank confines of that building. Earl pined for his friend, tried endlessly to get him to spend time outdoors the way they used to. But it was all to no avail- Cecil had a new love, and it was the Night Vale Community Radio station.

 

And eventually, Earl _did_ drop off the face of the earth for a while. He disappeared, quite literally, and when he returned he was older, with a son he didn't remember, years missing from his life. It took him so long to readjust, to find a job he could do, to figure out who he even was anymore. And then, out of nowhere, his name on the radio. A flood of emotions coming back. An invitation to reopen a relationship he thought was closed to him forever.

 

He almost took a blow to the head thinking about that first appearance on Cecil's show. He had been so nervous, so excited. His palms wouldn't stop sweating, and he wanted so badly to win his way back into Cecil's life. The barista took advantage of his distraction to land a solid punch to his chest, knocking him backwards a bit. Earl shook his head, clearing his mind of all other thoughts, letting Cecil's cool demeanor sink to the back of his mind as he pushed an aggressive series of jabs at the other man, landing one after another until the barista fell to his knees. Even then it took a firm hand on his shoulder to stop his furious, flailing blows.

 

Earl stepped away, breathing heavily, wiping blood from a small cut on his brow. The barista still knelt, panting. Eventually he stood and extended a hand to Earl, a lopsided grin gracing his face.

 

“Good fight, scoutmaster.”

 

Earl didn't respond, simply bowing his head and turning to leave. Roger would need dinner, and he had a couple fresh portabella mushrooms in the fridge at home. He was too tired to think of anything else, and he knew that night would bring him blissful, dreamless sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In conclusion I love Earl very much.


End file.
